


Her Little Bird

by AwwwCoffee_No



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: All avengers eventually, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Clint Barton-centric, Dungeons and Dragons AU, F/M, Natasha Romanov-centric, Younger Clint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-01-16 00:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12331698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwwwCoffee_No/pseuds/AwwwCoffee_No
Summary: Growing up on the Sword Coast, orphan Klynt Bardon thinks he's prepared for anything. But when he comes across a deadly red room assassin, he knows he's screwed.Everything goes downhill from there.





	1. Running across rooftops...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, Coffee here.   
> I had an AU itch that I just couldn't scratch, so here it is.

**Waterdeep**

_**Age 15** _

Klynt Bardon snuck through the sewer tunnel like a thief in the night, which he technically was. He could admit it, but then he’d never been ashamed of it. A street urchin couldn’t afford to be ashamed of something as petty as stealing in the city of Waterdeep.

But even he could admit it was odd – a thief stealing from the thieves guild. He knew that if he stopped to think about it, he’d realise how stupid it is and he’d back out of the mission; so he didn’t think about it. He just kept on moving.

The tunnel was pitch black, and he didn’t dare light a torch, but he’d been informed that there was an entrance to the thieves’ headquarters down here. He wasn’t sure what sort of an entrance to expect. A door marked with a sconce or maybe a secret entrance that activated with a pull of a lever? The sewer entrance behind him allowed only enough moonlight into glint off the ankle high muck below him (and good god his boots were going to be ruined from this). He didn’t know how he was going to find it, but he knew he couldn’t afford to fail.

So he reached out with his left hand and trailed his fingers across the sewer wall as he crept. He had to move slowly to avoid splashing through the water, but he was patient. Whether the door was five feet in front of him or a mile, he was determined not to make a sound.

Good thing too, or he would have missed it.

He was watching the river of muck that he waded through carefully, ensuring he didn’t step wrong and slip on something (eww, he didn’t want to think about what he might slip on) submerged underneath when he saw it. The moonlight glinting off the water seemed to break as the water changed direction, a minuscule current streaming off course.

He stopped mid-step and looked to his left where his hand had presumably been trailing along. Where the water was pushing into. He couldn’t even see it; the wall or his hand. So he used his touch, closing his eyes to focus on the cold stone beneath his fingers. Trying to feel every texture and grain in the wall. He moved his hands in a searching pattern, left to right; top to bottom.

He felt it when his fingers neared the waterline. Not a crack, the masons that built the door had been too clever for that, but air. The tiniest breeze flowed out into his fingers, and now that he knew it was there he traced the length of it. Up along the wall and there was a corner as his fingers started moving horizontally along the doorway and he had to stand on his toes and stretch just to reach it.

And there! A small indent about the size and shape as a coin.

Before he could think about it, he pushed into it until it clicked. Loudly. He quickly withdrew his hand and froze, expecting a knife in the back or a fireball to his face. But nothing happened. No one had discovered him, and the door seemed to remain inert. Until it wasn’t. With a deep echoing rumble that stretched on forever, during which Klynt could only think _‘shit, I’m screwed’_ , as the stone door opened inwards.

But inside he was met with nothing but silence and another tunnel. He could barely make out a torch that was smoking like someone had just extinguished it. The smoke was sharp and woody to his nose. It also drove in the feeling of wrongness that had the hair on his neck standing on end.

He found himself staring at the white smoke in the blackness and desperately wished he could light it. He was so much better when he could see. But the light would draw attention, and besides, he didn’t have the fire magic needed to set it alight again.

So he bit his lip and forced himself to move forward down the tunnel.

It wasn’t long before he stepped into another area of the sewers and felt the walls open outwards. It was more ventilated here, and he could even see a little. About twenty feet in front of him, there was a grate in the ceiling that let a soft moonlight into the room. It was dim enough that it hinted at the expanse of the subterranean cavern but didn’t illuminate its corners.

With a start, he realised that this was the Thieves Guild itself. The headquarters he’d heard about. And that grate was the only thing separating the criminal hideout from the street above. How it hadn’t been discovered he had no idea, all a person had to do was look down, but he suspected magic was involved. Maybe some kind of glamour or illusion. Not that it mattered.

He dragged his eyes down to the floor, feeling uneasy again. Why weren’t there any torches lit in the cavern? Surely even thieves needed to see. He did. Klynt had always prided himself on his eyesight (“as sharp as an elf’s” Barney had always told him), but even adjusted to the dark as they were and with the slight moonlight he could only make vague details.

The room was a perfect circle, about forty feet across and with the ceiling grate directly in the middle. There were four entrances, including the tunnel he’d just entered through and one at each compass point. None of them had doors save one, to his left. Beneath his feet, the sewer water ran down a shallow groove cut into the floor and separated a tiny island in the centre of the cavern.

He stared hard into the shadow in the room’s corners and could just make out the silhouettes of beds and startled. He barely bit back his curse. Most of them were occupied, but the occupants hadn’t stirred. Maybe that’s why all the torches in the room were extinguished he thought, so they could sleep.

Impressively, none of them snored.

Swallowing his prayer that they were all light sleepers, he stepped forwards, picking his way through the shadows to the door on his left. It was big, thick and sturdy. This was it, his informant had warned him, the doors to the thieves’ vault. A big heavy lock secured it. With one last look behind him, he crouched in front of it and got to work.

He was self-taught and a little rusty, but he couldn’t help smirk when the lock came undone in less than a minute. Carefully, he turned the handled of the door and opened it outwards. What he saw inside made his jaw drop.

Even in the darkness, the mountain of gold glinted, and Klynt’s started drooling. It was more wealth than he’d ever seen in his life, and likely more than he’d ever see again. Copper, silver, electrum, gold and even platinum sparkled within. He even saw a few rubies and other precious jewels, and it was enough to make his hand twitch with want.  But his real prize lay on top of it all as if it had only just been added to the hoard.

And it probably had. It was a cube, glowing bright blue from inside a pouch that had been left wide open. Klynt honestly had no idea what it did, but Crisholm had been clear – Klynt either retrieved it for him, or he died.

So without thinking twice, he reached in and picked up the pouch, being careful not to touch the thing itself. Crisholm had been clear about that as well, if he touched it he also died. Tightening the cord on the pouch until it closed, he quickly tied it to his belt and made to leave before hesitating. He couldn’t help grabbing a handful of coins and shoving it in his pocket.

Then he really did leave. Exiting the vault, and closing the door, he hurried out and made for the entrance that had been directly opposite the tunnel he came in. He could just see a ladder in the doorway that he knew lead to the Guild’s secret entrance – and therefore the fastest way out of here. As he hurried past the sleeping forms in their beds, he stepped in something that made his boot squelch and froze.

After a moment when none of the thieves awoke, he released the breath he’d been holding in and kept walking, reaching the ladder and hauling himself up. He reached a trap door and opened it as carefully as he’d moved through the cavern below. It opened in a large building, and at first, he thought he was alone.

He climbed up into a long building with a high ceiling and rows of benches facing an alter positioned directly behind the trap door. It was a temple he realised as he climbed out and started walking his way down the aisle to the front doors. This was it, he’d done it without even a single soul noticing him.

With that, he could finally relax, and he let out a soft laugh at the irony of _him being in a church_. “Gotta be honest,” he muttered to himself, “never expected to find me in one of these.”

Behind him, someone else chuckled, “Yeah, you and me both.”

Klynt spun around, only metres from the door and felt his blood chill. Standing at the trap door was a shadow of a woman in a dark hood. Her clothes were dark and obviously of high quality, and the leather of her boots and the armour had been oiled a deep black. Indeed the only brightness Klynt could see in her belonged to her porcelain skin and hair the colour of fresh blood peaking from underneath her hood. Hair the same colour as the sash that was tied at her waist.

He didn’t know what scared him more; the sash that identified her as a red room assassin, or the trail of his footprints leading from the trapdoor. His bloody footprints. Instantly his mind recalled a squelching boot and bodies that slept too deeply and snored to little, and he swallowed hard.

Red lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth, and he knew she’d been waiting for him to realise. So when she took a step towards him, Bardon did the only thing he could and ran.

* * *

 

The black widow watched the boy’s face with amusement as it dawned on him. The boy was young, blonde and far too skinny. Hunger showed in the hollows of his face. He was a pitiful figure, but then what could she expect from a human. But he’d also been unexpected, and that was something refreshingly new to her.

Natalya had slaughtered the criminals in the sewer below in their sleep, as she’d been ordered. The guild known as the ‘Last Born’ was to be eliminated. Secrecy. To ensure the treasure’s trail died with them. They were all thieves and murderers anyway, and the Black Widow felt no remorse for them.

But when the dirty work was done and before she could claim her prize, the tunnel entrance had opened, surprising her. All the thieves guild had been dealt with, there was no other party left to deal with. So she’d hidden, and waited. And been entirely surprised when the little human… the boy had stumbled into the scene.

Without the darkvision innate in elves and other races, the boy had been as blind as a bat. And he’d stumbled through the guild’s home like a dragon in a china shop, and if the occupants hadn’t already been dealt with, the whole venture would have ended in disaster. She had to admit that he’d made impressive work on the lock, but in the end, it wouldn’t matter. The only reason she hadn’t killed him already was that he’d been a spark of entertainment on an otherwise tedious job. He’d even made her laugh.

Which is why she waited until he finished looking like a stunned mullet before she closed in for the kill. Her fingers drifted to one of the knives sheathed in her belt lazily. In her experience, children were too easy to kill. They always froze up, closing their eyes like the monster would go away if they couldn’t see it and they’d awake from the nightmare.

That’s why it surprised her when he spun faster than she thought possible and took off out the church doors into the night. It took only a second for her to master her surprise. Then, smirking, she took off after him.

Outside the streets were completely empty and a half moon shone brilliantly in the night sky. It was easy to spot the lone boy tearing across the square in front of the temple, headed for a tiny alleyway. She didn’t waste any time following him.

He disappeared into the alley, and the assassin squeezed in a moment later. It was almost too narrow for the black widow to get her shoulders through, but didn’t hamper the beanpole of a kid at all. If she had been carrying a sword, she would have gotten stuck immediately. _Smart,_ she approved, and her smile got even bigger.

Like any predator, she enjoyed the thrill of the chase, and when they came to an abrupt corner, and the boy used the wall to springboard himself in the new direction, she copied him right on his heels. Here the alley widened a little, it’s brick walls leaning away from them.

Up ahead a cart, piled high with goods, turned the alley into a dead end, and the Black Widow couldn’t help the disappointment that flared in her. To his credit, the orphan didn’t even slow as he ran straight towards it. With all the speed and grace of a mountain goat, he hit the cart running and scrambled up and over it. She heard a muffled ‘oof’ as he landed a little less than perfectly on the other side and then she was vaulting over herself.

He hadn’t even slowed down to look back, and the Black Widow saw a flash of heels as he fled back onto the streets and continued her pursuit. That was how the chase continued for the next few minutes; him zigzagging down alleys and streets with a surety of direction that only an urchin who’d grown up on the streets could possess, and she followed hot on his tail. And he continued to throw surprises and obstacles at her.

At one point he’d lead them onto the main street that was still crowded with people at this time of night and slowed down, possibly counting on the presence of witnesses to deter her. _Nice try kid,_ she’d thought as she slipped into the crowd a dozen feet behind him. When he’d turned back expecting the chase to be over, and instead found an assassin grinning at him as she elbowed past a half-orc, his disappointed expression quickly changed into a stubborn frown.

He didn’t hesitate, tired as he was, and tore down another alley and headed North. Dutifully Natalya followed him. If she was honest, she could have caught him ages ago. She’d been holding back, enjoying their game while it lasted. If she’d really wanted to catch him, she would’ve moved to the rooftops – which allowed much faster travel than the city streets.

The boy seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because when he came across the next obstacle – a dozen barrels stacked in a pile against the wall – instead of tearing past them, he changed direction and began climbing up. Natalya stopped to watch his progress. When he’d used the very top barrel to jump up and pull himself onto the nearest roof, the black widow made an amused sound and climbed up after him.

He obviously wasn’t expecting her to, because he was bent over with his hands on his knees and breathed heavily. She wasn’t even winded. Sweaty yes, but not breathless. His eyes widened comically before he took off again.

She was mildly impressed as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop through Waterdeep’s Castle Ward without hesitation. Natalya spent a quarter hour following him. Up and down, over and across. At one point the roof tiles gave way beneath his feet, crashing down to the street below. But he didn’t lose any momentum has he faltered before righting himself.

He could have been an acrobat, she mused, if he survived.

But it was time to draw it to a close, she knew. It had already gone on longer than expected and despite the fun, she had a job to do. Her masters didn’t respond kindly to failure.

It was easier to track where he was leading them on the rooftops. No maze of buildings and alleys to hamper her navigation. The would-be-thief was leading them to the Dark Turret, a colossal tower of stone that jutted out above the city, hoping to climb out of her reach.

Bad news for him, she’d never been scared of heights. And, she thought as they neared it, it would only trap him up there.

Sure enough, when he reached the turret, he leapt up and grabbed onto the large stone bricks. Small fingers wedged into the gaps, he clung to the wall like a limpet and hauled himself upwards. Natalya followed his example and hauled herself up. For a human, and one so young – he was remarkably quick and agile. He reached the top of the tower, easily ten stories up, and disappeared onto the roof.

When Natalya hauled herself up, he was standing there waiting, blue eyes fixed on her. As she rose to her feet and dusted herself off, she tutted, “Well done little one, but there’s no place left to go.”

“P-please, you don’t have to do this,” his eyes were wide and huge. A perfect puppy-dog look.  

She shook her head softly. She’d killed young ones before, but she never enjoyed it, “You have something I need.” His eyes flicked down to the pouch hanging from his belt before they returned to watching her. His expression seemed to war with itself, and she allowed herself to soften, “What’s your name boy?”

He squinted, perhaps sensing a trick. Slowly he said, “Klynt, whats it to ya?”

“If it’s any consolation, Klynt – you did well… for a human,” she started walking forwards.

“I don’t suppose that means you’ll let me go?” the boy – Klynt – said with a hopeful look. The black widow just drew her knife in silence. His face fell in response, “Yeah, I guessed as much.”

“I’ll make it quick,” she didn’t know why she bothered trying to comfort him. He was just a mark.

“Nah, I’ll pass.”

And then he did something so unexpected – so suicidal – that even Natalya was surprised for the first time that night. Turning around, he sprinted and leapt off the edge of the tallest building in the city, to his death.

* * *

 

Klynt plummeted straight down, the wind whipping at him, towards the street below. He should be worried. But his aim had been true. He hit the cloth roof of the trader’s stall below with a whump, and the thing collapsed with him.

The landing blew all of the breath out of him, and he felt something pop, and there was an unbelievable pain in his right shoulder. He bit his tongue to hold back his scream and tasted blood. It was agony, but at least he was alive. Better than could be said for the thieves he’d left in the sewer.

He scrambled out of the cloth that had tangled around him, every bump jarring his bad arm and he had to bite back a whine each time. When he was free, he looked at it; it was hanging limp and useless.

Then he checked that the cube was still safe in its pouch on his belt and risked a look up. The turret towered above him, so high he had to crane his head back, but he saw her. A dark silhouette was standing on the edge, looking down at him. He couldn’t help letting loose a joyous laugh, and then he bowed theatrically, like an actor at the end of a show.

But the turret wouldn’t stop her for long, he knew. So he turned and ran off, ignoring the pain from his arm and the gasping of his chest. He just kept running.

He ran until he ran out of room to run and hoped it had been enough to lose the assassin. Without thinking, his feet lead him to the Sea Ward, the area of Waterdeep that huddled on the cliff’s edge. Tired now and weary, he reached a familiar point – called Leaper’s Ledge.

It had a sad history, this spot; primarily, as the name suggested, for being a popular suicide spot. Too many people had jumped into the waves and rocks below. But also because it was the location of an even sadder story, one his mother had told him – before she died.

Apparently, long before all the suicides that happened here, it had been called Lover’s Lookout and a statue used to stand here, of a woman looking out to sea. The story told of a woman who’s lover sailed off to war, promising to marry her when he returned. So every day, the beautiful young girl had climbed her way to the edge and looked out to the sea, waiting for his ship to come in. But years went by, and the war ended, and still, he didn’t come home, but she wouldn’t stop her watch. And she kept waiting and watching until she withered away and turned to stone, becoming the statue that stood there.

At least that was how the story went. But the statue had been stolen years ago, and there was no proof that any of it was real. Instead, the spot had become one of Klynt’s preferred ones.

Somewhere he could go to be alone and up high and watch and think. Or be hurt.

He sat down on the low wall that separated the city from the edge and acted as a low tech railing to stop people accidentally falling over and looked down at his arm. It still hurt and hung uselessly. He frowned at it, wishing he could make it better by willpower alone. It had been stupid to jump like that; granted he’d performed the stunt before, but never from that high up. But it had been the last card he had to play.

He was alive, but it also meant he’d be more vulnerable when he gave the cube to Buck Crisholm. And he had to give the cube to Buck if he wanted to live in the city another day.

This time he heard her before she spoke. The scuff of boots coming to a stop on the street.

 _So much for worrying about Buck,_ he thought grimly.

He didn’t turn until he heard her clear her throat, “The little bird has finally stopped running.”

Smiling, he looked at her and stood up, his left hand cradling his bad arm. He’d always liked watching birds fly, he didn’t mind getting called one before he died.  And he would die, he knew. Even at the age of fifteen, he’d heard the stories.

Stories of a red room in a secret building in an unknown city, where men and women with wealth and influence enough to know, could go and whisper. Whisper the names of people of their enemies, the names of those who had something they wanted, or even just the names of people who vexed them. And an assassin would listen, an assassin in red, would take their money and go out and take care of it. The red room assassins never failed, and they never showed mercy.

He knew he wouldn’t get any mercy, so he didn’t ask for it. Instead, he shrugged, “Had to stop running sometime.”

She stood there, watching him. As dangerous as she was, he couldn’t help staring at her. She was beautiful; beautiful and intense and dangerous, and someone smarter would probably avert their eyes, but he just thought ‘screw it.’ She was going to kill him anyway, so he might as well look.

After what felt like forever she said, “No one has given me that much of a run around in a long time.”

He has the feeling that this was meant to be high praise, and he should probably say something smart in response. But all that comes out is, “uh, you’re welcome, I guess.”

Her lips quirk into something small and beautiful, then she starts moving toward him. Closing in, like she’d done two times already tonight. Instantly, he lurched to his feet – one arm hanging uselessly as the other reached for the tiny blade he kept in his boot. It was tiny, more of a toothpick than a weapon but Klynt clutched it in his fist and tried to look like he knew how to use it.

“Listen, lady,” he wished his voice didn’t come out as scared as he felt, “just because you said some pretty speech, doesn’t mean I’m going to lie down and let you end me.”

A perfect eyebrow arched, as she moved to within arms reach. Still, Klynt didn’t move, trapped as he was between her and the low wall behind his legs. It was stupid, but he wanted to hear what she had to say first.

“It’s a good thing I guess,” she whispered slowly, “that no one told me to kill you.”

Then before he could respond, her knife was in her hand, and she was lashing out, severing the cord that tied the cube to him. With her other hand, she grabbed it and kicked him. He fell back, over the wall and plummetted off the cliff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how did you like it?  
> I'm alternating between writing this and another Avengers AU fic so please let me know if you're interested in me continuing it.  
> This is unbeta'd so feel free to point out mistakes, corrections or even stylistic suggestions. I promise I'll look at them all.


	2. First blood...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all, Coffee here with the second chapter of Her Little Bird, and things are finally starting to get interesting.  
> You may also notice that while these events are based loosely in the Dungeon & Dragons land of Faerun, I have taken the liberty of creating my own locations and people as fits the needs of the story.  
> Anyway, hope you all enjoy...

Klynt fell for the second time that night. Only he had no control over this plunge. It seemed like an eternity, but in reality, it only took moments for his body to fall to the crashing waves and sharp rocks below. Still enough time for him to accept the fact that he was going to die; that he’d be impaled on one of those points he was falling towards like an arrow fired from a bow.

Only he missed, by a hands breath. Flew past the rocks and splashed into the churning ocean, as if by design. He’d always wonder until the day he died if that was the case. If a red room had purposely spared his life in the act of kindness. Or weakness. She never did give him an answer.

Regardless, he managed to swim to shore and climb out of the sea, despite his dislocated shoulder. He was lucky to be alive, was his first thought. His second was that he’d lost the cube and he was as good as dead anyway. Buck Crisholm wouldn’t accept failure.

So he did the only thing he could do; he fled the city. And never looked back.

 

* * *

 

**Grant’s Shire, on the outskirts of Neverwinter Forest.**

**_Three years later…_ **

He was eighteen when he next saw her. He was older, and he’d grown; sprouted up to five foot eight and began to put some meat on his scrawny frame. And he’d found a place to call home…

The arrow hit the target with a thud. It wasn’t dead centre, but it was definitely a bullseye, and he allowed himself a small smile. He was getting better every day. The other archers in the militia thought so and were proud of how far he’d come since he joined them six months ago. It only inspired him to train more and harder, no matter how long it took until he was as good as the rest of them.

It was why he was out here now, shooting arrow after arrow into the target in the light of the setting sun. The sky was cast a deep rose colour, and the courtyard he found himself in was softened by it. Along one sturdy stone wall, more targets were lined up beside the one he used now, and on the other side of the yard a set of training dummies.

The barracks were located not too far away; part of the massive fort that loomed around him. A nobleman lorded over it all, and the town beyond of roughly two hundred civilians and that was also protected by the same stone walls. But Klynt had no delusions that the militia was here to keep the townspeople safe. They were here to protect the noble, Lord Howlton, and him alone.

But the militia provided a safe haven, and food in his belly; so he was content to follow orders. It also helped that there hadn’t been one threat or attack made against them in all the time he’d been here.

Until now that was.

Agroth, another member of the militia, ran into the courtyard as Klynt loosed another arrow into the target, looking winded. “Wrenn!” he gasped out.

That was right. He was called Wrenn now, a fake name he’d given himself to hide his tracks. In case Buck Crisholm was still looking for him. It also gave him a chance to start over, to be something more than Klynt the orphan, and maybe be Wrenn, the soldier. Maybe even be Wrenn, the hero.

“What is it?” he said as he jogged over to where the other man was bent over, trying to catch his breath. Klynt patiently waited until he caught his breath.

“The gates,” the half-orc blurted when he finally caught his breath, “the gates are under attack!”

Klynt reeled, “What? Why? And by who?”

Agroth shook his head, “No time. We have to get to the gates.”

At that, the soldier started lumbering off. Despite the circumstances, Klynt had to smile. The half-orc was one of the biggest people he’d ever meant, with muscles upon muscles covering every inch of him. But the guy was shit at cardio.

The blonde followed behind him at a trot, stopping only to ensure his sword belt was securely fastened. The main gates were at the other side of the town, and the fastest way to reach them was to pass through the lord’s estate and along the wall. And past the party.

There was a ball going on in Lord Howlton’s manor tonight; another frivolous event that the noble held to show off his vanity and wealth. It probably shouldn’t have been a surprise that someone had chosen this night to attack when they were content and distracted.

Klynt spared a condescending look at the partygoers as they ran past on the wall nearest the estate. Finely clothed lords and stuffy ladies all walked around and mingled, clutching goblets of wine and gorging on delicacies. If they knew about the attack, none of them seemed to care, Klynt noticed as he ran.

And then he stopped in his tracks, skidding to a halt. Agroth, oblivious, ran on without him and Klynt knew he should follow. But he also knew what he saw – he’d recognise that shade of red anywhere. It haunted his dreams and his nightmares equally.

He scanned the crowd again, trying to locate her again. There! A flash of red curls as she turned into a doorway and out of sight. She was wearing a blue dress, the colour of the sea under moonlight, but belted at her waist had been a red sash.

Without hesitating the man known as Wrenn changed course, storming downstairs and into the party proper. He looked out of place in his purple tunic and chainmail among all of these noblemen and women in their ball gowns and suits that probably cost more than he’d ever make in a year. He heard more than one of them mutter things like “peasant” and “low-born” as he pushed his way through. But he didn’t pay them any mind, he just elbowed and barged his way through the lot of them in a way he wouldn’t have dared a few years ago when he was simply Klynt the orphan.

Finally, he navigated through the crowd and marched into the doorway he’d seen the woman disappear into and stopped. He was in a hallway, dimly lit by candles on the wall and furnished with a long ox-hair rug that ran down the length of it. There was no sign of where she went save for a door left ajar at the far end, and Klynt moved to it.

Outside the door, he listened for a moment; trying to overhear anything that might give him a clue as to what he was walking into. He could hear nothing but his own heartbeat. With a deep breath he kicked the door open and entered, an arrow already notched in his bow.

The room was as silent as the grave. It was a bedroom, he realised, but the only thing that moved inside was the curtains swaying in front of an open window. That didn’t mean it was empty though. On the bed lay a body with its throat slit open from ear to ear. Body and bow still tense and ready for any attack, Klynt moved closer for a better look.

With a start, he realised he recognised the man. It was Lord Howlton. His neck had been cut so deep as to almost sever it in half and the blonde couldn’t help but notice the noble’s trouser front was undone and open for all the world to see.

Klynt had no doubt that this was the red room assassin’s handy work. But she was nowhere in the room, and his eyes drifted to the open window.

It looked out onto the Lord's garden, and Klynt knew it was a shortcut into the township itself if one was willing to jump a wall. An obvious escape route, he realised. He couldn’t be too far behind her. So he placed one hand on the window sill and dropped to the other side. It was only a short distance to the ground, and he absorbed the impact with his knees in a well-practised motion.

The recently cut grass was soft under his boots, and he took a step forward. Beds full of flowers and fruit trees stretched off on either side, but he simply moved forward toward the hedge that marked the garden’s end. It was well maintained, and an arch had been artfully carved out of it. Klynt wasted no time rushing through it.

As he passed through it, there was a flash of blue and red to his right. Before he knew what was happening, he’d landed on his back, and someone was straddling him. They raised their arms over their head and the last light of the sun glinted on the knife they were about to plunge straight into his throat.

“It _is_ you,” he blurted and immediately cringed. Of all the last words to say in his final moments; it seemed dumb and insignificant to confirm she was who he’d suspected.

But it made her pause, her blade faltering mid-stroke. The red room assassin frowned in confusion down at him, and it was definitely her. He’d know that hair and those lips and those perfect eyebrows anywhere. Green eyes studied his face, trying to place him.

It only took a moment for her eyes to widen in realisation, and with a quirk of her lips, she breathed, “little bird.”

He felt his ears colour at the nickname, and he nodded his head, “Yeah, that’s me. Long time, no see I guess.”

He paused like she was about to laugh at him, but then her face darkened. She lowered her blade so that it was against his throat and Klynt stilled. It was an exquisite weapon, with a thick blade and red leather wrapped around the handle. She growled low, “Why were you following me?”

Klynt paused, and it had nothing to do with the knifepoint resting against his jugular. In truth, he had no idea why he had stormed off after her. There’d been no plan for what he’d do once he caught up with her. He could say that he’d known what she was and had planned to stop her from doing what she was paid to do. Or that he wanted revenge for kicking him off that cliff so many years ago. Both were lies. The truth is he’d caught a glimpse of her, and he’d lost all other thought except seeking her out.

But he knew he’d sound touched in the head if he said that out loud. So instead he uttered the first thing he could think of, “I never got your name.”

By the look she gave him at those words, he evidently still sounded crazy. But her voice was a little softer when she ignored him and pressed the blade a little in emphasis, “I could’ve killed you, you realise. There was no way I could not hear you blundering after me, with all the noise you made in that armour. Gods above, I still should kill you.”

Klynt swallowed and felt a sharp sting as the knife nicked his skin. Slowly, he brought a hand up and pushed the point away from his skin so he could talk. The woman glared at him, but let him do so anyway. Now safe to talk, Klynt held her stare as he answered, “I figured if you really wanted to kill me, you could’ve done so three years ago on that cliff.”

She stilled at that but didn’t give away her thoughts. Instead, she said, “You’re a deluded fool, Klynt.”

It was then that a horn sounded off, in the distance. It was coming from the direction of the gates, and Klynt vaguely heard the voice of an officer yell, “To the gates! We’re under attack!”” He cringed, he should’ve already been there.

It’s then he noticed the position he was in. The assassin straddled his waist in a dress that at her knees, and suddenly Klynt had to focus very hard on not thinking about how beautiful she was and where she was sitting on. Even more embarrassing was the fact that he hadn’t once tried to escape from underneath her, even when she held a blade to his throat. He must have blushed because she raised a delicate eyebrow at him.

Hurriedly, Klynt mumbled, “I gotta go, uh… do you mind?”

Her lips quirked like she was amused by his request. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he should be avenging his patron lord against her, but he already knew that was a lost cause. It seemed like a lifetime before she came to a decision and rose smoothly to her feet, purring, “Well, if you must, little bird.”

Klynt hurried to his feet, hoping that his tunic and armour adequately hid his arousal and mumbled his thanks. He took one last look at her and noticed something. Without her assassin’s armour and hood on, he could get a clear look at her face – or more specifically her ears. The tops beneath her red hair looked abnormal like they’d been cut into shape instead of naturally growing that way. With a start, he realised that was exactly what had happened, and what she was.

An elf, he dared only whisper inside the confines of his mind.

He’d heard of elves doing that as a way to appear more human. It was a way to blend in, and also a painful one according to the stories.

With a start, he realised he was staring, and that she was waiting for him to move. He hurriedly shut his open mouth and pointed in the direction of the city gates. “I, uh, have to go,” he said dumbly before adding, “bye.”

With that he took off running, leaving the assassin to watch him go.

* * *

 

He killed for the first time that night. It was a man about to stab one of his comrades in the back when he finally reached the wall and without thinking, Klynt buried an arrow in his throat. He fell to the ground haltingly, a hand desperately trying to contain the blood gurgling from his neck.

Another man was hacking at an already downed defender, and Klynt fired his second shot at the man’s heart. The arrowhead shattered on the warrior’s breastplate, but Klynt was careful to place his next through the unprotected left eye.

It was chaos, the defenders had rallied to the gates, but they were no match for the organised war band assaulting them. A mixed-race army of humans, half-orcs and half-elves had swarmed the base of the wall and were desperately trying to climb over it. Thankfully the gates had been closed and locked off, but the attackers simply hooked ladders to the walls. Now the defenders were desperately trying to fight them off.

Klynt saw Agroth struggling with one such invader. The man was on the top part of a ladder and beating at the half-orc with a sword. Bracing behind his shield was all Agroth could do to avoid getting slaughtered and stop the attacker’s progress.

The blonde ran up behind him and kicked out at the ladder poles resting against the wall. There was a moment where the attacker realised what was happening, and desperately pinwheeled his arms. Trying to keep his balance. Then gravity took hold, and he fell away from the wall, taking the ladder with him. 

Agroth huffed a laugh, “Where the hell have you been, Wrenn?”

“Busy,” Klynt grunted, “What happened here? Who are they?”

“Illuskans,” indeed the human among the enemy host all bore the features common among the Illuskan people. “Mercenaries, I suspect. Someone somewhere must have a grudge against our Lord.”

“Howlton’s dead,” Klynt replied, and although the half-orc looked up at him in surprise, he didn’t question him.

Instead, he said, “Then we fight for the townspeople.”

Bardon nodded, “Agreed.”

And they both leapt into the fray. Klynt sent arrow after arrow into the men rushing them. When his quiver emptied, he drew his sword and rushed to aid the other defenders. He was capable with this weapon as well, but he knew even then that he’d never be famous for his sword hand.

But it didn’t matter, they were outnumbered three to one, and none of the defenders believed they’d ever win the battle. Instead, they fought for the people, to buy them time, or out of sheer stubbornness.

At some point late in the battle, when night had fallen, and they were fighting by moonlight, Klynt found himself beside Agroth again. They were both exhausted, and their swords were bloody. Klint hacked and slashed, and parried and slashed again until it was starting to feel like it was the only thing he’d ever known. He heard Agroth suffer a blow beside him and turned to face his friend’s attacker.

Instead, he felt someone else move in behind him, and a moment later there was a sharp blow to the back of his head. He fell to the ground, and in the last moment of consciousness was aware of people stepping over his body on their way to sack the town.

* * *

 

**_The next morning…_ **

He awoke the soft warmth of the rising sun, and for a moment tried to shift so he could ignore its wakeup call. It felt good to sleep in. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a chance to relax, what with the battle and everything that happened before…

The battle? Klynt’s eyes shot open.

He was outside the town walls, propped against a tree trunk on the edge of the forest. He should’ve been dead. Someone had dragged him off the battlefield and out far enough to be safe.

He groaned and got to his feet slowly, as every muscle in his body seemed to protest. Tentatively he reached up and touched the back of his head gingerly. It smarted and Klynt flinched away from it. His head was already aching.

Without a conscious decision, he found himself stumbling back to town wall. The invaders had breached the gate, and smoke rose from the town beyond. Bodies lay strewn on the ground outside the wall, piled so high in places that Klynt had to climb over them to get through. He recognised some of them as his own kills. A body with an arrow in his throat lay sprawled out in front of him, his helmet half fallen off his face.

Impulsively, Klynt reached down and tore the helmet off the rest of the way so he could see the man’s face. He knew it had been the first person he killed. He expected to have some profound revelation upon seeing the man’s identity.

Instead, he felt only horror. The boy had been even younger than Klynt. Tall for his age, but there was no mistaking the boy’s youth.

Klynt turned away angrily, instead focusing on the purple coat of the defenders, hoping to find a survivor or someone still clinging to life. But everybody he found, every corpse he turned over was dead. Some had stab wounds, some had limbs hacked off, and some had even fallen to their death outside the wall, but every one of them was dead. It seemed impossible that anyone has survived such butchery, let alone him.

At last, he found the person he’d feared finding the most and his legs almost failed to support him at the sight before him. Agroth lay in the thick of the bodies on his back, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. Someone had caught him under his breastplate and hacked downwards, disembowelling the half-orc. Even in death, the soldier was still clutching his stomach and intestines, as if still trying to force them back inside his body.

Klynt couldn’t stand it, he ran. He fled down the wall and over the corpses once more – making for the cover of the tree line. There was no way he was venturing further into the town to see what they’d done to the people. His feet soon found themselves back at the tree where he started, and he fell to his knees and retched.

He retched until his stomach was empty and he couldn’t throw up anything more. He felt sick and horrified. To think, he’d been looking forward to proving himself in battle less than twenty-four hours earlier. He cursed his own foolishness as he wiped away the spittle on his face with the back of his hand.

That’s when he noticed it, the mark. An hourglass, two simple hourglasses pointing to each other, was tattooed on the palm of his hand. It seemed to throb in time with his heartbeat, and he knew instinctively that there was a magic to it.

His bow and sword were lying against the tree as well, but that wasn’t all. A piece of parchment with pinned to the trunk by a knife with a red leather handle. He pursed his lips and retrieved them; wondering what it all meant.

He weighed the dagger in his hand and held the paper in his other. There was a word written on it in an elegant script. It was times like this that Klynt wished he could read.

* * *

 

**Elsewhere.**

**_Six hours later…_ **

Outside a secret building in an unknown city, Natalya opened the front door and slipped inside. The building itself was nothing to marvel at; just another unimpressive building that looked like every other in the city. But inside the rooms were red.

Red walls, red ceiling and red floor. Even the cushions on the many lounges and beds were red. Inside, masked individuals whispered their darkest wishes into the ears of attendants who wore red sashes cinched tight around their waist. The only thing that was not remotely red was the elf sitting on his throne at the back of the room.

Natalya walked her way past the petitioners and headed straight for him. She knew that Ivan would want to hear her report straight away.

He wore a shirt of black silk with a low collar to show off his broad shoulders. A black mask covered the top of his face, leaving only his mouth and eyes visible. His raven black hair was cut short, and the whole ensemble made him look like a fierce god of war. Which was, of course, his intention.

“Natalya, my dear,” his lips quirked into a vipers smile, “I trust all went well.”

Natalya forced herself to maintain a cool façade; she could show no weakness in front of her master. “As if there was ever any doubt, Ivan. The fool Howlton never suspected a thing.”

“Please, Natalya; credit where it is due. It  was very fortunate for you that the town was attacked when it did.”

Natalya pursed her red lips. Using the Illuskan mercenaries as a cover had been Alexei’s idea, and the fellow assassin looked unbelievably smug where he hovered not too far away. Natalya didn’t spare him a second thought, she’d secretly resented the plan; it resulted in more death than necessary – from the soldiers and the townspeople – but she hadn’t dared appear weak by saying as much out loud, would be a death sentence. If there is one thing Ivan couldn’t stand above all others, it was weakness. “Indeed. Those Illuskans provided a good distraction.”

Ivan hummed thoughtfully, “And there were no complications at all?”

Natalya froze, it was a loaded question. Either he already knew she had done something wrong or at least suspected. Instantly, Natalya thought of the supplies and preparations she’d been squirrelling away. Of her plans to leave the order.

“No,” she said without hesitation, “nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Natalya saw Alexei flash a smile. Her blood chilled, it’d been the wrong thing to say. But Ivan only hummed, as if they were making pleasant conversation and nothing was amiss. “And the young soldier,” Natalya almost did a double take, they knew about Klynt, “the one you dragged off the battlefield. What happened with him?”

Natalya thought furiously, trying to gauge how much the man already knew. No doubt, it’d been Alexei who had spied on her and reported back. But if her dragging the boy off the killing field was what they’d lead with, then it was unlikely they’d witnessed the scene in the garden.

So she bluffed, “The soldier discovered the Lord's body shortly before the attack; although he didn’t notice me before he ran to the defence of the gates. I thought it necessary to ensure he was dead; if we are to maintain this fiction that the lord was killed by the invading force during the attack, and not singled out. With all the blood and bodies in the battle’s aftermath, it was too difficult to tell if he was still breathing, so I moved him.”

It was a flimsy lie at best, with too many plot holes to count. Like why didn’t she kill him before the battle? Or simply stab him through the heart when she found him. And with Ivan’s mask, Natalya couldn’t read his face. Finally, he asked, “And was he?”

“No. As I said, nothing, I couldn’t handle.”

Ivan was perfectly still, thinking. And just when Natalya was starting to get antsy at the thought that he might not believe her – he nodded, dismissing her. She almost breathed a sigh of relief as she stalked away.

Ivan believed her. He thought Klynt was dead, and that’d keep the boy safe. The devil only knew what would happen if he knew that Natalya had spared the boy, or if he suspected she cared for the little bird. Ivan didn’t take kindly to sentiment or emotions.

After all, they were only other names for weakness.


	3. Dwarves and Priests...

**The Grey Badger Inn, on the Triboar Trail.**

**_One year later…_ **

The flames danced inside the stone fireplace, swaying in time to a beat that no one else could hear. Around it, villagers and workmen congregated; mugs of ale clasped firmly in their hands. They were the people of Forest’s Crest village, and they were celebrating the end of a long hard day’s work.

There were a handful of travellers in the tavern as well, crowded around the benches where they drew crowds and told their stories. They were making the journey along the Triboar trail, and every one of them had news to tell of the outside world. Or exaggerations.

One of the visitors was standing on a chair, telling the throng of people of tragedy on the roads to Luskan; where a group of bandits had apparently attacked the procession carrying the heir to the famous Stark fortune. He waved a hand dramatically as he recounted, “And there he was, the Stark boy, beset upon by both sides. And he knew that he couldn’t buy his way out this time; after all, it was his fortune that drew them. They wanted him to ransom to his dear old daddy.”

“That’s bull-shite,” cried one of the spectators, raising his ale to draw the crowd’s attention, “everyone knows the Stark’s are more heavily guarded than the kings and queens of old. A battalion of soldiers escorts them every time they wanna fucking use the chamber pot. No way they’d let the little lordling on the road on his own.”

The storyteller beamed brightly and nodded, “Too right my good friend, they wouldn’t let the latest Stark travelled unaccompanied by daddy’s best men. And they didn’t. But the bandits, whoever they were, went after the boy anyway and cut through the Stark ranks like they were wheels of cheese. It was a slaughter, and in the end, not one bannerman still drew breath!”

He fanned his arms out dramatically, and the crowd oohed and aahed predictably; local and visitor alike. Everyone seemed entranced by the story of bloody battles and wealthy lords versing bandit scum.

Everyone that was except for the figure drinking alone at the very back of the room. Past the wooden benched crowded with humans, elves and dwarves, and the fireplace flickering softly, and in the furthest corner of the room where the shadows clung the fiercest was a lone table with only one chair. A young man sat on it, a hood covering his face, and the glint of mail could be seen peeking between the folds of his cloak.

He’d arrived at the inn a month ago, and so far he hadn’t spoken a word to a single soul. He’d stay inside the morning, noon and night every day of the week and barely move a muscle, save to lift his ale to his lips and signal the barmaid for a refill with a gesture of his hand. No one else dared approach him; a strung bow leant against the wall next to him, and a quiver of arrows lay in easy reach against his leg.

But he didn’t bother nobody, and he was good for coin; so the owners let him stay and drink. At first, the regular patrons had been wary of the guy, but after a week he’d just become a fixture of the place; like the fireplace that provided warmth. Some of them assumed he was a mute or dumb, while the more seasoned recognised the way the quietness and the way he held himself in other soldiers that had passed through. Battle fatigue, some called it.

Klynt didn’t bother to correct them; they were wrong, anyway. Battle fatigue only applied to soldiers, and he wasn’t a soldier. Not anymore. A man named Wren had fought and bled and lost on the walls of Grant’s Shire. And if he was honest with himself, Wren had died too somewhere along those town walls.

He didn’t know who had replaced Wren though; he hadn’t yet chosen another name. He only knew that they had one purpose in life, and that was to drink himself stupid until he either died or finally forgot. So far he hadn’t had any luck what so ever on either front, but this new him liked to believe he didn’t give up without a struggle.

So Klynt raised his mug to his lips and swallowed back the anger that rose inside him at the villager’s enjoying a tale about young men dying in service of some selfish rich brat who couldn’t give two fucks about them. In all likelihood, none of the people here had ever even seen a battle. And as much as Klynt would like to give them a real taste by putting an arrow or two in the traveller telling the story; he knew he’d only feel worse in the long run.

“…but when the bandits came to the carriage; the boy was gone. Disappeared, like a ghost,” the traveller was saying.

“Magic?” someone asked.

“Nah,” said another villager, “don’t remember any of the other Starks with the gift; it’s not in their blood.”

“What if he was trained,” someone else asked and Klynt shook his head. Imagine that? The heir of the wealthiest family in all of Faerun being gifted with magic on top of everything else. Nah, the boy was likely dead, he thought, and the bandits were too embarrassed to admit they killed him by accident.

His thoughts and the conversation around him were broken as the front door slammed open.  A boy of thirteen stood in the doorway, and Klynt vaguely recognised him as one of the local children. His father could usually be found in this very same bar on a daily basis. Not that Klynt was in any position to judge. But the boy looked odd now, the emotion on his face torn between excited and worried.

“The priest,” he cried, “he’s in the square!”

The half-orc behind the bar scoffed, “So what, boy! What’s so important about that?”

“It’s Sidgurt,” the boy struggled to find his breath, “the priest is going to hang him.”

And like that, the story of the missing Stark boy was forgotten. Instantly, everyone was leaving their chairs to see for themselves. The locals, apparently knowing this Sidgurt, murmured amongst themselves worriedly as they walked out. The travellers, looking for entertainment, followed along. Klynt didn’t belong to either of the two groups and would’ve been quite happy to stay behind and continue nursing his drink.

But he had to admit, he was curious. The only glimpse he’d seen of the local priest of Pellor was when the elf had barged into the tavern one night, drunk on communion wine, and proceeded to condemn all of the patrons as drunkards and sinners before the eyes of his god. The irony of the situation had been lost on the ranting priest. Klynt sighed and grabbed his bow and quiver, knowing he was already going to follow the crowd and see what was happening.

The square was already filled by the time he arrived on its outskirts, the procession was already underway. He could see a brown-robed priest on a podium that had been erected in the square’s centre underneath the apple tree that grew there. Next to him stood a dwarf, slumped and defeated. He was standing on a stool, and a rope attached to his neck was hooked up and over one of the branches overhead.

Klynt could barely hear the priests words from this distance, “…this man is a sinner. He is a murderer and a thief before the eyes of Pellor, and his body bares the marks of his hellish life… look at these burns… earned from the fire, he torched a farmhouse with – killing the family inside. I tell you, the only thing this monster deserves is death.”

The crowd mostly listened in rapt silence. Some nodded their heads, the threat of bandits and murderers in this area was growing, and they needed to make an example. But none of them spoke. And it took all of Klynt’s resolve to raise his voice above the tense silence. “Bullshit.”

The crowd reacted like someone had fired a catapult over their heads, spinning around to face him. He knew the shock on the faces of those who’d been in the bar was due to finally hearing his voice for the first time in a month; deep and croaky after so long without speaking. The rest of the villagers were abashed that someone dared interrupt the show.

The priest himself was studying him over the crowd, his face tight. Finally, he asked loudly, his voice calm like a coiled spring, “What did you say?”

“I said that you’re story is bullshit! I know that dwarf,” he said with more conviction and pointed a finger at the person in question balancing on the stall. Indeed, he hadn’t recognised the name Sidgurt, but he knew the dwarf’s face. He’d seen him in the Grey Badger Inn with the other lumberjacks and had overheard enough to know that the horrible scars that littered the right side of the dwarf’s face were not a result of any wrongdoing. Rather, the burns that made him look so ugly and fearsome were the result of an unfortunate accident in the dwarf’s youth. Klynt cleared his throat and spoke louder, to the crowd this time, “and so do you people! He is Sidgurt, your coworker, your neighbour and your friend. You know him, and you know he is innocent.”

A couple of heads started to nod once more, changing their allegiance and the priest scrambled to regain control, asking loudly, “And who are you? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

Klynt paused, considering. He’d just been thinking of how he hadn’t adopted a new name, and now he was expected to provide one. And the gods above he couldn’t bare to be Klynt the orphan again. So he said the first thing that came into his head, “My… uh, name is Jay…son. Jayson… Faulkner.”

But there’d been no confidence in his voice, and he’d hesitated too long. The priest leapt on the sign of weakness like a cat on a mouse, “Lies! This man lies like the god of mischief himself, falsities spilling from his tongue with every word. Look how he his dressed! Look at his weapons! He is no farmer or worker, he is as much a murderer as this dwarf! They’re partners in crime…”

The priest had been on a roll, turning the crowd against Klynt with masterful ease. Until he mentioned the dwarf; the seed Klynt had planted about the crowd knowing Sidgurt had grown strong. For some reason that Klynt didn’t know, the priest was invested in seeing this dwarf hang. But the crowd was now shaking their heads, angry at the priest’s accusation of one of their own.

“It’s over,” Klynt stated as the priest’s expression started to turn frantic, “let Sidgurt go!”

But the priest was panicking, flicking to look at every frowning face in the crowd and knowing he’d lost the crowd’s support. People loved a hanging, but they hated nobles and priests throwing their weight around. It was over, the priest of Pellor had lost.

No one expected what happened next.

The priest stood tall and shouted, “To heck with you. I am a servant of Pellor, and I do his will.” Before anyone could react, he lifted his leg and kicked the chair out from under the dwarf.

Instantly, the rope went taut, and Sidgurt hung from the rope. His legs kicked frantically two feet above the ground. The noose was strangling him, and no one seemed sure of what to do, they were frozen in shock. Klynt himself was too far away to get there in time.

He did the only thing he could think of; he drew an arrow from his quiver and raised his bow. Slotting the fletching into the bowstring, he pulled the rope to his cheek and looked down the arrow’s shaft. He could feel the bow resisting him, struggling to regain its shape. It took all the muscles in his back to steady himself long enough to aim.

This was a longer distance than he’d ever shot before, he realised. And the target was unbearably small and swayed as the purple-faced dwarf rocked back and forth. He was racked with indecision. If he missed, he could kill Sidgurt himself. But he already had enough blood on his hands, he reminded himself, a little more wouldn’t make any difference.

And the dwarf would be just as dead if he didn’t take the shot.

So he loosed the arrow. There was a soft twang of his bow, and then the shaft was flying through the air. It shot over the crowd's heads in a flash and found it’s mark. It cut through the cord, and the dwarf dropped to the ground with a hard slap. Klynt winced at the impact.

But the sight of Sidgurt falling to the floor finally kicked the villagers into action. They rushed forward, eager to help their friend to his feet. Klynt trotted ahead as well. He shoved through the crowd until he could see the luckless dwarf and make sure he was all right.

Sidgurt was okay.

But the priest wasn't. His face was red with fury, and he made a movement towards one of the surrounding men's daggers. Before Klynt knew what he was doing, he'd drawn his bow and had the arrow pointed squarely at the priest's eyeball. "Don't even think about it," he said with more conviction than he felt. It was a priest, and this was tantamount to sacrilege.

The priest glared wide-eyed at him, "You wouldn't dare. I'm a servant of Pellor."

Klynt held his gaze and  shrugged before pulling the bow back a little tighter, "Well I never really was one for the gods."

Klynt could sense the tension in the air. The villagers and Sidgurt were watching the exchange with rapt attention. He really couldn't tell if they were rooting for him or the priest, and after a moment he realised - he didn't care. He was sick and tired of caring.

"You'll pay for this," the priest finally said, his hands slipping back into his robes.

"No, you'll pay if I ever hear of you going after Sidgurt or any other member of this town again. There will be no trial, no fancy execution. I will put an arrow through your stomach and leave you to bleed out in the dirt," the archer was surprised by the edge in his voice. But he needed to make sure there were no repercussions.

The priest opened his mouth to say something, then decided better of it and stormed off. He pushed the crowd aside as he did so, his robes blowing in the wind as he did so. Klynt finally let out the breath he'd been holding and lowered the arrow. And the crowd went wild! There was the sound of clapping on all sides, and he felt more than one hand reach out to pat him on the shoulder.

Sidgurt came forward, rubbing his bruised throat and clasped Klynt's arm, "You saved me! How can I ever repay you."

It took a moment for him to realise  he was being praised, but when he did, he awkwardly muttered, "It was nothing, I just did what anyone should have done."

He levelled an accusing glare at the rest of the crowd. But they seemed not to notice. Instead, one voice bellowed out a laugh, "Nothing, he says! Did you see that shot?"

"I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my very eyes," another stranger said.

Sidgurt nodded with a grin, "Aye, he's got sharp eyes!"

"Yeah, eyes like a Hawk!"

The praise had grown too much for him though, and Klynt made his way back through the crowd. As much as the approval amused him, it sickened him as well. He knew he was no hero, he couldn't be after what he’d seen and done. And the sweet words dropped from the lips of these people, who'd been just as happy to watch their friend die before Klynt showed up, made him feel tainted.

Sidgurt rushed after him, "Friend, where are you going?"

"Back to the Inn," Klynt said without breaking his stride. Hopefully, they'd get the picture and leave him alone now.

Instead, the dwarf seemed to think it was a great plan, "Good idea, we must celebrate! The least I can do is get you a drink. What says the rest of you?"

The crowd whooped as one, and Klynt could hear them make to follow him to the bar. A few even took up the cry of "Free drinks for Hawkeye!"

Klynt shook his head, the name would never stick. But he guessed having his drinks paid for wouldn't be so bad.

 

* * *

 

**The next morning...**

"Mister Hawke!" Someone was calling, "Mister Hawke, wake up!"

Klynt tried to roll over to escape the noise, and instead crashed to the floor. It was like being dumped in a freezing cold river. Suddenly he was awake and alert. He looked around him, he was in the Inn and had fallen asleep in his chair the night before.

He looked up there was a boy. No older than ten and with soft brown hair. He was undoubtedly human. The child was looking up at him with big brown eyes and an excited expression.

"What do you want?" Klynt growled. He looked into his cup to see if there was any ale left over from last night and was delighted to find it was the case. He gulped it down to avoid seeing the hurt look on the kid's face. He was still trying to remember what happened last night.

He remembered saving Sidgurt, and going to the Inn afterwards. He remembered the Inn being more crowded than he'd ever seen it, with all the villagers eager to drink and learn more about their newfound idol. Curse them, Klynt hadn't been able to get any privacy for the entire night. But they'd been honest, and he didn't have to pay for any of the drinks they'd supplied him with.

Now it was the morning, and he had a terrible headache that seemed to hammer at the inside of his skull like dwarves digging for gold. He turned back to see the kid still staring up at him, his eyes far too seeing for Klynt's liking. He prompted again, "Well, what do you want?"

The kid straightened, remembering himself, and stuttered out an answer, "I-it's my father, Mister Hawkeye, h-he sent me to find you!"

"Well, you found me." the Archer rubbed his face with a hand wearily, "and don't call me that. Mister Hawkeye."

"O-oh yes Mister- I mean, yes Hawke." Klynt wrinkled his nose at the name, but stayed silent, "My father n-needs your help. He owns a farm, you see, and w-we've been h-having a problem with wolves."

"And he wants me to take care of them for him, I'm guessing?" Klynt asked with a sigh. "I'm sorry kid, but the answer is-."

"Please, Mister Hawke! The wolves... they got my brother six moons ago," the kid interrupted desperately. "A-and my father is willing to p-pay you."

The words Klynt was about to utter dried up in his mouth. It must've been the promise of pay, he reasoned. Because he was beyond fooling himself with believing he was a good person who cared about a lost kid. That was it, he decided, he needed work.

And so Klynt looked around, and finding his bow - he picked it up and stood shakily. Once his drunken legs had found their balance he looked at the kid and nodded. "Alright kid, lead the way."

It seemed he had a new job now, to go with a new name.

 

* * *

 

**The Red Room.**

**Two weeks later…**

Natalya knew she had a job when the red-veiled servant knocked on her door. She was sharpening her blades and almost didn't hear the woman's approach, but her breathing gave her away. When the girl's hands finally rapped against the wood, Natalya was already asking, "Yes?"

It was a useless query. She knew Ivan wanted to see her, that was the only reason they ever approached her. The girl, knowing as much, only inclined her head.

The red room assassin rose in a fluid motion, shoving the dagger into its sheath as she did so.

The servant lead the way without a word, winding her way through the many halls of the headquarters for Faerun's most infamous assassins. It wasn't long before they were in the Red Room, and it hadn't changed much since a year ago. There were still supplicants and assassins of every race. And Ivan was still sitting on his throne, with Alexei at his side like a faithful hound.

Only this time there was a curious look on Ivan's face, pensive almost, and Alexei could barely hide his grin. Instantly, Natalya's stomach dropped. She’d survived too long here to not be able to read the situation as she entered. No doubt she was in for a challenging assignment.

She came to a stop at the foot of the throne and inclined her head to Ivan. Carefully, she asked, "You wished to see me, Lord?"

Ivan nodded, "How are you feeling Natalya?"

"Fine," any other answer was a sign of weakness, "ready to get to work."

A twitch of Ivan's lips, "Good. I have a job that I believe you will be expressly suited for."

Natalya raised an eyebrow at that. Those words couldn't mean anything good. Slowly she said, "Who is the mark and how dangerous is he?"

Ivan rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "There is a human causing trouble on the Triboar trail. Dangerous? Unlikely, he's only mortal. The letter will tell you more."

With a click of the elf's fingers, Alexei started forward, a red envelope in his hands and that smug smile still on his lips. Instead of slapping him like she really wanted to, Natalya politely accepted the letter. Already it told her something. The sender hadn't come to the Red Room in person, and would typically have been denied for that very fact alone. Ivan had apparently taken a special interest in this job to allow such a slight.

When she unfurled the paper, she quirked a smile. So much for anonymity; the letter was signed with a face inside a sun - the holy symbol of the god Pellor. It was the usual bullshit she'd learnt to expect from religious clients. The target was accused of being a heathen and sacrilegious and preventing the Lord's work. The last line of it read, "It is imperative that an example is made of the brigand named Hawke."

It was to be a painful death then, Natalya surmised.

"I'll leave straight away," she told Ivan with a smile. She almost felt sorry for the man that was to be killed. The widow had been loosed on him; Hawke was as good as dead already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the late posts. School has been slamming me like (insert witty and articulate metaphor here) and I haven't had the time to update. Anyway, things are starting to heat up in this assignment, and I hope you enjoyed it.  
> PS. If anyone reading is a fantasy genre fan or just a fellow Hawkeye fiction enthusiast with an eye for editing, I'm currently hoping to take on a beta for this fic to allow me to post more regularly. Comment if you're interested! Or if you're not, comment anyway - I love to hear your feedback!


	4. If you go out in the woods today...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klynt has finally found his calling as the folk hero known as Hawke. But the Red Room assassin has recieved her latest mission; to kill the vigilante.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo long chapter ahead.   
> Enjoy it and let me know what you think.

The bandit edged closer to the side of the road and knew his brothers were doing the same. He could hear the sounds of wagon wheels approaching, and every second sent his excitement levels through the roof. They'd been praying on this section of the Triboar trail for two weeks, and it had proven a treasure trove of victims. Riders with letters that could be sold to the criminal guilds or adventurers full of clinking armour and weapons.   
But by far the wealthiest prize were carriages. Goods and valuables making their way to the markets, or wealthy lords and ladies making their way across the country loaded with expensive and pretty things. The bandit couldn't wait to see which this carriage would contain.   
The suspense was almost too much, and he had to stop himself from peeking up out of the grass to see. But that would ruin the surprise. No his job was to wait until the attack started and then run forward and prevent it from getting away. He was a full-blooded orc, in the prime of his life, and exceptionally well muscled. The trick was just to cut the harness that connected the horses to the vehicle or kill them if that was too difficult. But he couldn't rush out too early, he had to wait until the target was directly across from him.   
So he listened as the wheels clicked against the gravel.   
Click. Click.   
"Almost there," the bandit whispered to himself.  
Click.   
Cli-thump.  
The wagon had hit the little ditch they'd dug in the road, only a handsbreadth wide. It was basic psychology, the bandit mused with glee, the driver would mind his own business, his focus off after a long days ride. Then the cart would go bump, and he'd twist in his seat to see what happened.   
And then/now was when they'd attack-  
"Now!" One of the other bandits yelled.   
The orc didn't waste any time, bounding over the rise and onto the road. He didn't bother gifting the solitary driver with more than a passing glance as he locked eyes on the horses. They were his job. They were two old looking things, one grey and one with a white spot on its back.Both looked like they'd spent most of their lives pulling wagons and ploughs for farmers.   
They were both fitted into a heavy yoke, buckled around the chest. No rope to cut through so the Orc would have to kill the horses. It was disappointing, but he wouldn't lose any sleep over it. In fact, it would mean extra meat to have with their supper. A grin formed on the orcs lips and he crossed the distance in three long strides, raising his sword to slice through the grey mares neck and-.  
He died taking an arrow through his throat.  
"I don't suppose the rest of you want to reconsider," Klynt said in the surprised pause that followed the orc's death. He already had another notched and ready and had shed the brown travelling cloak he'd hidden himself in during the ride.  
There were four other highwaymen around the cart, and they all looked at each other dumbly. Not the brightest lot, but eventually one caught on and said, "You're that guy with the bow, Hawke!"  
Another, evidently their leader, finally snapped out of it and yelled, "Who cares who he is? Fucking kill him!"   
"I thought you'd say that," Klynt said and shot an arrow into him. The leader went down with a gargled cry, but the archer didn't have time to admire the sound.   
One of the others had gotten close enough to swing a sword at him, and he leapt back further on the seat of the wagon so that it didn't hit him. The sword embedded itself in the wood beneath him, an inch from his manhood. That was way too close, Klynt decided as he shot an arrow straight into the man's mouth. That was three bad guys down, and only two to go, and Klynt took aim at the half-elf to his right and fired.   
The arrow had been meant for the fighter's throat, but he'd managed to get his shield up in time. It thudded into the wood and hide and stuck there like a flagpole from a city wall.   
Klynt didn't have a chance to draw another arrow from his quiver before he was suddenly being hauled off the wagon by his hood. The last bandit, a human with skin as dark as midnight, threw him to the ground and raised his shortsword. Those short blades looked stumpy and impractical, but Klynt knew they provided an enormous amount of stabbing force. Enough to puncture the chainmail that protected Klynt's vital organs. So instead of trying to deflect the blade when it thrust down, Klynt twisted his torso out of the way.   
It wasn't perfect, and he felt a flash of cold pain as it caught the flesh covering his ribs, but he didn't allow it to stop him. He let go of his bow and drew the red-handled knife fastened to his belt. It was the one the Red Room assassin had left him all those months ago. He drove it up towards his attacker's throat.  
He missed, he'd never been as accurate in a close-up fight and caught him in the shoulder. The man reared back groaning in pain.   
But the half-elf was almost upon them, and Klynt didn't have time to finish the man off, so he pushed him off and rolled aside. Just in time. The half-elf's blade buried itself in the dirt where Klynt's neck had been. The archer kept rolling, making some distance and clawed at the ground along his way.   
By the time he felt he was far enough away to roll to scrabble to his feet, the half-elf was charging at him again - bringing the sword up for a downward swing. On his knees, there was no time to draw another arrow (even if he hadn't dropped his bow) or his sword before the bandit cut him down. So he flicked a wrist at the half-elf and opened his hand; releasing the handful of dirt he'd picked up.  
It sailed right into the bandit's face, and he flinched away, backpedalling and trying to wipe his eyes clear.  
Klynt tackled him at the knees, knocking him down and straddling him much like the dark-skinned man had before. Before the half-elf could struggle, Klynt ripped an arrow from his quiver and plunged it down like a blade at the criminal's throat. This time he didn't miss. His victim's eyes widened, and he died choking on his own blood.   
Klynt tore the arrow out again and staggered to his feet. The fight had kicked up some dust, and he felt it sticking to the blood on his hands. He could hear a soft whimpering; the human he'd stabbed was clutching the knife in his shoulder and staring at it in disbelief; like he couldn't believe it. To be fair the wound had been more brutal than Klynt realised, and almost torn apart the man's shoulder. His injured arm was hanging uselessly, and he couldn't bring himself to react as Klynt started stalking closer. He picked up his bow along the way and tightened his grip on the bloody arrow in his hand.   
"Please, this..." the bleeding man's words drifted off into a murmur, and Klynt cocked his head.  
"What did you say?" Klynt asked.  
The man's gaze finally sharpened on the archer again, "Hawke? Huh, this isn't right. This is not how it was meant to go. You're a myth."  
"Really? That dagger I put in you seems pretty real to me, kid," Klynt said as he finally stood over the man.   
"Please. You don't have to do this, I'll leave. I won't cause any trouble," the man was begging. Klynt raised an eyebrow, "You can take what you want, just don't kill me."  
Klynt thought about it. He could let this bandit go; the fight was over, he'd won, and this bandit wouldn't be robbing travellers anymore. Not with that arm. Mercy was a virtue.  
Klynt knelt down so that he could be sure the bandit heard him clearly, "You know, I bet Squall Chokanto said the exact same thing before you killed him too."  
"Squall? Who the hell is that?" The bandit spat as Klynt straightened up, "I never even met him-."  
"The blacksmith's boy you killed before your little band started working the road; the Genasi?" The man's face paled in recognition, and Klynt growled, "You didn't even know his damn name did you? So what was it, did he put up a fight when you broke into the shop? Or did you simply not like the fact that he was a gods-damned genasi?"  
Klynt was yelling at this point, and with every accusation, the criminal's face grew a shade paler, despite his dark skin. When he said nothing to defend himself, Klynt slotted the bloody arrow into his bowstring.  
That got the man talking.  
"No! Hawke, wait, it wasn't me," he pointed at the body of the man Klynt had identified as the leader, "it wasn't me. Micah came up with the job, he lead it. He ran the gang. Micah's the one you want; he was the one that killed the boy."  
Klynt nodded. He'd guessed as much when Squall's father described the murder to him two nights before. At least he could say he'd gotten the killer. He looked down at the gang member in front of him. He was only muscle, nothing more than an accomplice in it for the promise of wealth and adventure. Mercy was a virtue, and a good man would let him go.  
It was a real pity Klynt wasn't a good person.   
He sent the arrow through the man's eye. Quick and clean, no snappy comments and no messing around. It was as much mercy as he'd allow himself to give the man.   
He pulled the red-handled dagger from the man's shoulder and twinged in pain as his wound flared. With the fight done, and the bad guys neutralised, Klynt felt his heart rate slow down and the adrenaline run out. He was tired, and he was sore. The cut on his side had been deep.   
But he strode over and checked on the horses first. They were still attached to the wagon, and right where he'd left them, but they were skittish. The dead half-orc still lay right next to them. And they shied away from the copper scent of blood. Klynts wound and bloody hands didn't do anything to comfort them, but he approached them anyway; petting them and talking to them in soft tones like he'd seen stablehands do. He was checking them for wounds, but thankfully they seemed unmarked.   
That was good; they were only borrowed. One of the local farmers had loaned them to him when he made his plan of taking out the bandits known.  
With the horses taken care of, he turned to his own injuries. The wound in his side was deep, but it had only cut through muscle and fat, fortunately. His armour did a decent job of holding it shut, but it bled when he moved too much. Not good. He'd have to get it seen to by a doctor. Until then though, he bandaged it with a shirt he stripped from one of the bodies and took a drink from his waterskins.   
Then the real work began. Klynt stripped the bodies first. All their weapons and armour went into the back of the wagon. They would go to Landis Chokanto, the blacksmith they'd stolen it all from and the one that had hired Klynt to get vengeance on them. Next, their items were sorted through, and Klynt kept any valuables, gold or useful things he came across.  
And then he started dragging the bodies, beginning with the half-elf first, and hauling them into the cart as well. Chokanto wanted to see the faces of the men who'd killed his son. It was twisted, but Klynt couldn't find it in him to deny the man. These bandits had murdered his son, and they hadn't done it cleanly. The genasi youth had been beaten to death; most of the bones in his body had been broken. So Klynt hauled, despite the pain, it caused in his wound.   
The orc was definitely the worst and heaviest of them all. Klynt saved him for last and almost collapsed in exhaustion once he was done. But he could rest on the ride, and he still had to make the journey before dark. So he slung on the worn traveller's coat again and hopped back onto the driver's seat. With a click of his tongue, he got the poor horses moving and finally started to relax.   
Soon, he'd be getting paid.

 

* * *

 

Natalya was planning her own ambush. After talking to the locals and using the people manipulation that made her so good at her job, she'd found a location on Hawke. An awed aah and ooh during the right traveller's story had led to a conversation about where he was. The man had informed her that the target was out for the day, but that he'd be returning along the Triboar Trail before nightfall.   
Still, the conversation had unsettled her. Something seemed off like there was a puzzle piece she was missing.   
And it wasn't just the fact that the Priest had lied in his letter; Hawke didn't seem a criminal. In fact, the commoners viewed him as a man of the people. He'd saved the dwarf from hanging, hunted down a pack of wolves plaguing the local farms, escorted a caravan down to Baldur's Gate and back and just now was apparently tackling the local bandit problem. All within the few weeks he'd been active.  
The villagers seemed to think of him as a local hero, but Natalya's cynical mind just said mercenary. A mercenary that'd pissed off the wrong people. But that didn't explain why Ivan was taking such an interest in the contract, or Alexei's damnable grin when she left. But nothing the locals revealed seemed to solve the mystery.   
So all that was left was to kill the man.  
She was perched on a tree branch, her balance perfect, suspended above the road that passed beneath her. It was one of the more densely forested areas of the Trail in the region and an ideal ambush point. When Hawke passed beneath her, she could drop down on him like an angel of death.  
It was only a matter of waiting. Which she did, until the hours passed by and Natalya resorted to lounging on the branch instead of perching on it. She even allowed her thoughts to drift off to Ivan and Alexei, and what they might be planning.   
Which was when she heard it, the click-click of an approaching wagon. It was late in the day, and the light shining through the trees had softened casting deep shadows. But her elven eyes made out the cart as it approached with a supernatural clarity. It was a two horse team, with a single driver, and a mound of something she couldn't make out in the back. She adjusted her position, and her hand moved to the knife at her hip. The driver was wearing a brown-cloak that covered him from head to toe. The hood hid his features from view, but she didn't need to see his face. Her informant had told her what Hawke had been wearing when he left town that morning; it was him.  
As he passed under her, she almost felt sorry for the human, oblivious to his imminent death. Then she clamped down on those feelings and locked them away, ready to work.  
Without further adieu, she dropped from the branches, directly above him.   
Her body sliced through the air like a knife, and she drew her blade ready to stab at that vulnerable part of his neck as she landed. It went almost without a hitch, she landed directly behind him - her feet in the cart and stabbed down. He just wasn't there. At the last second, he must have felt her presence because he rolled out of the way.   
Natalya had thrown herself off balance with the stab and quickly pinwheeled to regain her footing. It didn't help that the horses, startled by the sudden activity had broken out into a trot, the carriage careening after them. She righted herself and brought the dagger up to stab again.  
The hooded man, Hawke, hit her in the wrist with his bow - swinging it like a club - and causing her to drop the knife. Natalya growled and dodged the follow-up swing, ducking low.   
Now he was overextended, and Natalya took the chance to kick him, high in his centre mass. He let out a shout of pain and toppled backwards off the cart and hit the road with a thud. If Natalya is lucky, the man broke his neck.   
But she had to make sure, and without a second thought left off the moving cart herself. She spared a glance at the vehicle speeding away in the distance and -wait were those bodies? - and immediately regretted it.   
She dived for the ground as she heard the soft twang of a bowstring. The arrow flew over her head, and she rolled to her feet. When she looked up, he'd disappeared, but Natalya was under no delusions that he was gone. And with his bow, he didn't even have to leave his hiding spot to attack her. So she sprinted for the cover of the trees on the side of the trees just as her suspicions were confirmed. An arrow thudded into the tree she was hiding behind, and she breathed a sigh of relief before peeking out again.   
There! The tail of his brown cloak flashed from behind one of the trees. Its colour was too light to blend in well with the wood. Natalya, on the other hand, was thankful she'd ignored her assassin red for oiled black armour and green clothes. It meant she could camouflage easily with the greens and shadows of the forest. But first, she had to break away from his line of sight.   
There was another thud as another arrow pinned the tree, forcing her to duck back behind cover. A second later, the archer's voice called out, surprising the assassin, "I don't suppose we can talk about this?"   
His voice sounded rugged and masculine as well as a little out of breath. She almost smiled, "Tell you what, put down the bow, and I'll let you talk all you want."  
If only it were that easy to trick him. There was a pause before he said, "That's not going to happen."  
There was something odd about his voice, and at first, Natalya thought that he sounded familiar. But that wasn't it. She just couldn't decide what. She peeked out of cover to look at the tree, there was no movement behind it, so she risked continuing the conversation. She reached into a pouch at her side, and pulled a hand crossbow, "I'm serious, why don't you come out and I'll hear what you have to say."  
She raises the weapon at the tree and waits. That's when she notices what's wrong; Hawke's coat had disappeared. He wasn't there anymore. She hears his voice a second before the arrow shoots through the air, "Yeah somehow I doubt that, lady." Natalya twists catching the arrow in her upper arm. The bastard had beaten her at her own game and circled around to her right.   
But he was momentarily exposed after firing the arrow, and she shot at him with her crossbow. The bolt hit him high in his centre mass, and he took a step back, before spinning for cover. Natalya had no intention of letting him break her sight again. She surged forward, ignoring the pain in her arm as she forced herself to keep moving, loading another bolt as she did so. Then without another thought, she rounded the tree and...  
Ducked to avoid breaking her nose on the bow he was swinging. His second swing aimed low though and caught her on the side so that she fell on her ass. Some elves might find that humiliating, but Natalya knew it allowed her to more easily take out his legs. She sent a sharp kick towards his shin. He was fast enough to step back from it but was then off balance enough that the second one connected.   
Hawke grunted as he fell towards her, and Natalya used that momentum to roll them so that she was on top, her knees pinning his right arm and the bow to the ground.   
He was decent enough that he abandoned any attempt at freeing the weapon and instead his left hand went straight to the knife at his belt. He slashed up and across, aiming for her throat, and it was all Natalya could do to get a hand up in time to stop it. She glared at him, the red-handled blade was inches from her throat-.  
Wait a second, her eyes zeroed in on the dagger itself, that was her red-handled knife. The one she'd given to...  
Hawke's head was rising up, and Natalya slammed it back into the ground hard enough to stun him, then threw his hood back. Sandy-blonde hair, rugged looks and those piercing blue eyes stared back at her; it was Klynt.   
"Shit," she breathed, "you're Hawke?"  
The man froze, confused. But not nearly as much as Natalya was, Ivan had sent her to kill the man she pronounced dead months ago. The only question was if Ivan and Alexei knew who the man really was.  
Klynt was staring up at her, his eyes narrowed as though he might be able to recognise her despite the mask and hood hiding her face. She decided to make it easier for him, and using her left hand holding the hand crossbow, she pulled back her own hood to reveal her distinctive red hair.  His eyes widened, and Natalya finished the reveal by dragging the mask down to her throat, "Yes, Klynt. It's me."  
He stutters for a moment, taken back, and Natalya tries to avoid the irony that here they were again, her straddling him after trying to kill him. Klynt was apparently thinking the same thoughts, because when he finally gathers his wits, he says, "We really have to stop meeting like this."  
That got a smile out of Natalya, "You're not wrong little bird."   
He smiled up at her that boyish smile he'd given her in the garden that night and Natalya felt something flare up in her chest. It was smothered just as quickly when his brow furrowed. He eyed the hand crossbow still loaded in her hand. His voice was lower when he asked, "What are you doing here?"  
The flutter in her chest is replaced with a hard knot in her stomach, and she knows she should just shoot him and be done with it. But it's her little bird asking, and she wonders when it became so difficult to deny him answers, "I'm here on Red Room business."  
He doesn't relax with the knowledge. And she can see his mind working behind his eyes as he puts two and two together. Finally, he stares at her, "They sent you to kill me didn't they?"  
She could say they sent her to kill Hawke, not Klynt but it was a lie. She knew Ivan and Alexei had known she'd spared the archer back at Grant's Shire and had purposely sent her to kill him to prove her loyalty. That was all his life meant, as a test. And the worst part is she'd do it too, she'd show her commitment and save herself, despite how often she dreamed of leaving.   
"I'm sorry Klynt," she owed him that much at least and lowered the crossbow so that it was pointed at his head. The least she could do is make it quick, and to hell with the slow death the priest wanted. Especially, when she knew the boy would just lie there and let her.   
Or not. She was surprised when Klynt flailed, throwing his whole body to the side, with her on top for the ride. Natalya would always blame that surprise for how the boy had managed to get the drop on him. He shrugged off his coat in the movement and was off like a purple and silver rabbit running through the forest.   
And where she thought she'd feel annoyed at the stunt, Natalya couldn't help feeling a touch of pride at his refusal to give up. For that, she let him have a few seconds headstart. She got up slowly, watching the flashes of him darting through the trees when she noticed something. Klynt's coat on the ground displayed out like a brown hide about to be tanned. In the centre was a large patch of discolourisation; instead of brown, there was a puddle of red. A pool of blood.

 

* * *

 

Klynt dashed through the forest, clutching his side, and his heart going a thousand beats per minute. He was screwed. He knew he was screwed. The red room assassin was after him, and she was going to kill him.

Sure, she'd let him live in the past. Had even saved his life.

But he hadn't been a part of her contract then and now...

Now he was the contract.

He checked over his shoulder as he suddenly started to the right trying to throw her off. It wasn't working. She was maybe thirty yards back and following. The elf didn't even look slightly out of breath either.

Klynt switched his bow to his left hand and drew an arrow. She was going to catch him if it was just a straight chase; so he'd try to mix it up. He turned and fired the arrow.

It hit a tree, inches away from her head, and she faltered. Apparently, she didn't expect him to be shooting at her now that they knew who each other was. She was wrong - hell, she had an arrow sticking out of her arm to attest to that.

And it didn't seem to even faze her as she ran after him.

They went like that for another ten minutes, sprinting and shooting. Klynt just missing her each time, and Natalya getting in close and firing into his armour. Every shot weakened him a little more, but he would've stubbornly kept going if it wasn't for the inevitable.

Klynt lurched into a massive fir tree and spun, he could see her stalking through the forest. But she was careful. She'd grown used to their game and was keeping close to the trees in preparation for his next shot, her crossbow loaded and ready to counter fire. Klynt reached back to grab, and arrow and his fingers closed on nothing but empty air.

He cursed, under his breath. He was empty, and that meant it was over.

There was no way he could beat the assassin in a close fight, especially not with how much blood he was losing. The only thing he could try and do is break away from her and run. But he was slowing. Already his head throbbed with not enough blood flow, and it was all too tempting to stop and rest.

But he was taking to long, and the red room assassin was peeking out, noticing his hesitation. He desperately tried to find his bearings in the forest and concluded that his best chance for escape was north, towards the lake.

He didn't waste any time moving in that direction. But still, he was slow, lumbering. His balance was shot, and he almost tripped and fell facefirst into another tree but managed to recover in time. He didn't let himself slow down any further though and kept his headlong momentum up.

It was another mile before he finally saw his destination peaking through the trees. He'd long given up on looking back to check if the red room assassin was still following him. He knew she was. Instead, his eyes focused on the water of the lake fast approaching, and the sudden drop that might guarantee him safety.

There was a cliff face on the edge of the lake, and a fall into the water directly past it. A plummet like that had saved him from her once before, and if there was a god of suicidal jumps off cliffs, he hoped they were watching at this moment. Because he broke out of the line of trees and ran forward,  legs pumping and leapt straight off the edge.

He only hoped the water below him wasn't as shallow as it looked.

 

* * *

 

In fairness, Natalya lost Klynt more than once - an admirable feat for a human - but his blood left a trail that soon brought her back on track. A drop on the pine needles here, a bloody handprint on the tree here and smeared against a rock further on. And when the blood decided to slow its pace and leave less of a trail, she'd stick another bolt through his armour and get it flowing again.

It was a sadistic hunting technique, one invented by the human race millennia ago when they were still painting stick figures in caves. But it worked, and Red Room assassins were taught to prize efficiency above all else, especially ethics.

And Klynt was slowing, she knew, he'd failed to lose her since the last time she'd shot at him. Whatever had wounded him before she found him had left a mark, and that was slowly killing him. She would only be cutting the journey short.

Which is why she was surprised when he suddenly changed direction and started running once more. He was charging through the trees like a wild bull through a busy city street, with no thought as to what he might hit. Natalya recognised the emotion; determination. He was determined to get somewhere, which meant he had a plan.

She started chasing him a little faster.

This is only the third time she'd met him, but she knew him well enough to know he was desperate. And the boy was unpredictable when he was desperate. Up ahead Klynt was barrelling towards a break in the tree line, and Natalya decided to start closing in. She wondered if he knew she'd been toying with him, that elves could move faster than even the most athletically gifted human.

She watched him sprint forward out of the trees, and was only a second behind him. But Natalya faltered when she saw the sudden drop, and barely skidded to a stop in time.

Klynt just ran straight off the edge and plummeted into the water below. He hit the water with a splash and disappeared under the surface. It was a foolish risk, the man was still wearing heavy armour, and it would drag him down to the bottom she knew. In his weakened state, it was a death sentence.

But instead of shrugging and leaving, Natalya waited. Watching.

She stood like that and counted the minutes as they went by. One, two, three, and at four she was confident he was dead. Until she saw movement on the lake shore - the boy had survived it and crawled along the lake bottom until he reached the shallows. He gasped a ragged breath as he staggered out of the water. Behind him, a patch of blood seemed to follow him in the lake for a moment, before being whisked away by the current.

Natalya didn't waste any time - Klynt may have been wounded, but he now had a headstart on her. She started running, looking for a way down to his level. As it was, that still took her fifteen minutes to get to his last known location. He was out of sight, and she'd worry that he'd be long gone if it wasn't for one thing.

The same thing that had allowed her to track him through the forest so easily. Blood.

A trail of blood drops leading away into the woods and seemed to stagger and sway, like a drunks footprints leading away from an inn. Still, Natalya followed cautiously, a loaded crossbow in one hand and a dagger in the other. Her footsteps were near silent as she walked, eyes and ears open for any sign of an ambush.

She went like that for the better part of five minutes before she stumbled into a clearing. What she saw before her made her breath a sigh of relief, and she lowered the crossbow ever so slightly.

"I have to admit, little bird," she told the body slumped against the trunk of a fallen tree, "you were a tad impressive that time as well."

"Well, you know me," his breath came out with a wheeze, "I aim to please." He was bleeding from the multiple bolts that Natalya had stuck him with, but by far the worst damage was the cut in his side that was still bleeding profusely through its makeshift bandages. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment before he looked up at her, "Only a tad?"

Natalya eyed their surroundings; the green grass, the looming fir trees and the darkening sky above. All in all; not the worst place to die. In answer to his question, she shrugged, "Diving into water is not nearly as exciting as diving towards a city street."

"Ah well, I'll keep that in mind for... for next time," his voice almost drifted off as he threatened to lose consciousness.

Natalya smiled; a real smile that she couldn't help.As much as she knew it had to end, she was still enjoying this- this banter. It sent a feeling of... something when he finally slides his gaze to the weapons in her hands. He gulped, and then coughed. "I don't suppose I can win you over with my charming personality, huh?"

Natalya shook her head, "You know I have no choice in this."

"Yeah. Better me than you, I guess," Klynt broke out into another cough, more violent this time. This one drawing blood onto his lips.

When the fit finally subsided, Natalya closed the distance and crouched in front of him. Klynt's eyes never left her hands as she reached out and wiped the bloody-spittle away with her thumb. He was fading fast, no doubt in a lot of pain, but Natalya still felt the need to ask, "Are you ready, Klynt, to end this?"

She tapped her hand crossbow in emphasis, but Klynt didn't need it. He closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Surrendering, Natalya realised. She raised the weapon and aimed it at the soft part of the skull on his temple. It was then that he surprised her by blurting out, "One last thing before I go... my dying wish. At least give me that?"

"Hmmph, I'm not going to spare you, if that's what you're asking?"

He let out a breathy laugh that had the elf's own lungs twinging in sympathy, "If only it were that easy. Nothing as boring as that, I promise. I just want to know..."

"What?" Natalya asked as his words trailed off beyond even her hearing. He was fading but determined to make the request before he went. She saw his lips moving in a whisper and leant close, her ear to his mouth. "What do you want to know, Klynt?"

Even then she still barely heard him as he breathed out those little words, determined until the very end, "In my breast pocket. I want to know what it says."

The red room assassin fumbled with the dying man's chainmail coat and reached into the shirt beneath. Sure enough, there was something there. A folded parchment, stained with blood and heavily creased where it had been folded for so long. She recognised it even before she opened it and saw the slit where she had pinned it to a tree so long ago. It had never occurred to her that the boy wouldn't be able to read the message she left him. That one single word. That the mystery of it had still plagued him in his final moments, hit Natalya with a feeling she hadn't felt in a long time.

"Natalya, Klynt." But he was almost gone, and Natalya had to slap him to stop him stepping any further into the next life, "You asked me my name, Klynt. That's what it says. Natalya, my name is Natalya."

His brief smile said that he'd heard her, but he was already going. No need for Natalya to waste another bolt. Having received his last wish, Klynt was now dying.

Which was a problem; since she'd finally realised she didn't want him to go.

Klynt. Her Little Bird. He meant something to her. But there was no way a doctor could save him even if Natalya got him to one in time. No, it would take a miracle.

Or magic.

She wondered what his reaction would be if he knew that she possessed some, the red room assassin mused as she flexed her hands. Albeit she only ever used it for sinister purposes, illusions and glamours, theoretically she should be able to heal just as easily. But helping and nurturing wasn't her expertise, and the chances were slim.

But the Red Room assassin, Natalya, had made up her mind. She would try and save Klynt, expertise be damned.


End file.
